


And Another Thing!

by aibidil, frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chudley Cannons, Conspiracies, Crack, Data - Freeform, Dole Whip, Established Relationship, HP: EWE, Humor, M/M, Misanthropy, Morgan Fairchild, New Urbanism, Peeps, Post-Hogwarts, Sheep, Vienettas, WWN, broom politics, couples game show, fashion as myth, fragile masculinity, insipid color palettes, misunderstood sobriety, peat, radio show, reproductive propaganda, slovenliness as a political issue, sports misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 04:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14156295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: Harry and friends appear on Lee’s new WWN game show, and the magical public is ready for the inside scoop on their favourite celebs. Instead, they hear about peat. And brooms. And sheep.





	And Another Thing!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/gifts).



> Happy birthday, **carpemermaid**!  <3 <3 <3 We wanted to do something special for your birthday to let you know how much you mean to us and to everyone who has had great conversations, considered new perspectives, and found fab friends on the Drarry Fans Discord. You are a fandom and creative force to be reckoned with, a badass witch, and a quality human. You have enriched our fandom experience and thus, on this auspicious day celebrating your birth, we can only apologise for what might be the most niche crack fic ever. 
> 
> Maje thanks to the astonishing **TDCat** for beta reading this and making it readable (technically speaking).

“Good evening, Great Britain!” Lee doesn’t speak. He roars, elongating every vowel for maximum effect. “To our audience here in the WWN studio,” he nods graciously to the crowd seated in front of him, spreading his arms out to each side in welcome, “and to our listeners at home,” Lee leaves a beat of silence and mouths “Second raters,” earning a giggle from the magical people assembled before him, “we’re delighted to welcome you to the first ever episode of _Whose Gripe Is It Anyway?_ , the only show where you get hear the most cherished pet peeves of Britain’s magical celebs. But there’s a twist! The rants are to be performed by their loved ones. Why, you may ask? Don’t worry about it! After all, who doesn’t love a bit of celeb goss, especially when it comes from the lovingly teasing mouths of other celebs! So, if you want to find out if our six contestants’ relationships—”

“And platonic friendships!” Blaise shouts from the wings, where he and the other five contestants are waiting to be introduced. His arm is slung around Pansy’s shoulders.

“Yes, yes, and platonic friendships.” Lee waves a hand dismissively and laughs off the interruption. Lee, the consummate professional, gets right back on track. “Can our contestants’ relationships— _and platonic friendships_ —survive hearing their most cherished rants acted out before them? Can our platonic friends match the impersonations of our romantic partners? Can the WWN stay relevant in this increasingly technologised magical era? Leeeet’s fiiiind ouuuut!”

Above Lee, large sparkling red letters suddenly appear, cast by the members of the production crew, who crouch against the insides of the stage wings. The letters spell out: APPLAUSE, and blink in and out of existence for a few seconds, until the audience has responded. Once the crew members spell them away, Lee jumps back in.

“Now, before I introduce our illustrious and infamous contestants, let me explain the rules. It’s simple: waiting in the wings are our six contestants—three couples, one of them emphatically platonic. Each contestant will have one chance—just one!—to perform their partner’s pet rant for us. Once we’ve heard from all six contestants, it will be up to you—the studio audience and the listeners at home—to decide which pair ranted best. Audience, when the time comes, you’ll be given three colour options, each corresponding to a different pair, and you’ll conjure a star above you in that colour for our hard-working elves—unionised, I assure you!—to tally. Listeners at home, our elves are also standing by the WWN Floos to count the stars that you send in.” Lee has let this all out in a rush, but has never once misspoken or even let a single syllable go un-enunciated. After taking a deep breath, he intones, “And, with that out of the way, let’s meet our mystery guests!”

‘APPLAUSE’ appears above the stage again, and the audience obliges, eager to find out which celebrities they’ll be getting intel on.

When the final claps die away, Lee turns to stage right where the contestants wait. “First up—he’s a hero of the Second Voldemort War, has an Order of Merlin First Class, and six siblings nearly as famous as he is. Iiiiiiiiit’s—Ron Weasley!”

Lee bellows Ron’s name and the audience claps and cheers as Ron emerges from the wings, waves awkwardly at the audience, and takes one of the six empty seats to Lee’s right.

“Next—he’s a self-identified Social Justice Warrior, has a 115 kilo Clean and Jerk PR, and six famous siblings-in-common-law. It’s—Cormac McLaggen!”

Cormac is welcomed with less enthusiastic, but still friendly applause. As he sits next to Ron, he stretches his legs out in front of him, and beckons for more applause.

“Your first couple, folks! And now for our next duo. This socialite has a famously dangerous lover for a mother and a tweet from Jeff Goldblum framed in his home. It’s—Blaise Zabini!”

Blaise walks proudly to his seat despite a lukewarm reception.

“And his platonic partner for this evening. She’s got Britain’s most famous bob and hates pugs. It’s—Pansy Parkinson!”

Pansy takes her seat looking so aloof as to be beyond noticing trivialities like the nearly silent audience.

“Come now folks, bygones!” Lee chides with a chuckle. “And now for our final couple—our power couple, if you will! He’s Britain’s favourite love-to-hate reformed baddy and he’ll hex you if you ask him if he’s a natural blond. It’s Draco Malfoy!”

The audience erupts as Draco takes his seat (scowling at Lee en route). It’s not that they adore Draco. It’s that they know that if he’s here, then—

“Which means our final contestant can only be—the bed-headed descendent of

Fleamont Potter, the man who won’t let me call him ‘The Boy Who anything-ed’ on air, the un-Chosen One to whom we are not all indebted for our liberty—Harry Potter!”

Harry shakes his head and laughs off Lee’s introduction as he follows Draco out onto the stage. His chuckles are drowned out, though, by the positively explosive applause, wolf whistles, and cheers from the crowd. They’re on their feet. Harry lifts one hand in a bashful ‘thank you, hello, please stop’. They do not. After a full minute, the production crew are forced to conjure a ‘No More Applause’ sign.

“Thank you, to our contestants and to our kind audience. And without further ado—let’s get ranting! Ron, you won the sickle toss backstage earlier, so you’re first up. Take it away!”

The crowd claps as Ron walks to the spot that Lee has just vacated. When he trips over his own feet, a few giggles can be heard, and he casts his eyes to the floorboards as his face reddens.

Ron stands at centre stage, where the Sonorus Charms have been woven into the space demarcated with little white ‘X’s spelled onto the floor. His courage mustering is visible. His facial expression defies description: he’s at once pallid and grimacing, but attempting to look fine about the whole thing—the tried and tested Gryffindor approach.

Lee moves his hands in an encouraging gesture and plasters on the smile of a man who’s seen Ron miss Quaffles headed straight into his arms during friendly backyard Quidditch matches. It is ineffective.

Ron’s eyes flit from Lee to Cormac, who’s wearing a far more genuine smile and nodding vigorously.

“Bro, are you seeing this?! Are you hearing this?!” Ron begins with Gryffindorish abruptness, shouting loudly enough to startle several audience members. His approach to channeling Cormac seems to be ninety percent volume, ten percent mangled posh accent. “See that ‘12.5m’ icon in the bottom of the screen?” Ron points so aggressively at an imagined telly that he unbalances himself, causing a few members of the audience to giggle.

At the titters, Ron halts and looks around hopelessly.

Cormac waves to capture Ron’s attention, and flashes him an ‘okay’ symbol with his hand.

Ron smiles defeatedly, but continues.

“So—” he stammers, “so that’s, um, that’s the distance of the race, right? And you know why it’s such a rando, stupid number?”

The audience chuckle at “rando”, which seems to give Ron some heart. He pauses for a moment, red face turning slightly to look to the audience. He puffs out his chest, adopts a self-satisfied expression, and dives back in.

“I’ll tell you why, babe. Because sexism. Hard, grimy sexism.” The audience continue to chuckle and Ron, newly emboldened, punctuates “hard,” “grimy” and “sexism” each by thwacking his index finger into the upturned palm of his other hand forcefully. “These ski fuckers, whoever the fuck they are—”

The audience giggles loudly at the profanity.

Ron pauses, giving the audience time to yuk it up and relishing his moment of comedic moment in the sun before continuing, “—make all the women’s events just a _tiny_ ”—Ron pitches his voice up here for dramatic effect—”bit shorter than the men’s events—and don’t even get me going on how they’re referred to as ‘Ladies’, not ‘Women’s’. Are you shitting me, brah? Who created this event, Jane Austen? Do you see any any empire waisted gowns out there? No? How about ringlets? Because I sure don’t. I see a bunch of dope-ass women in thermal tights and bandanas, sweating like beasts while they SKI UPHILL. Uphill, babe! Can you imagine the conditioning. I wonder what the off-season training regime is like. A lot of cycling, you reckon? Do you think there’s any good cross country in the Highlands? Wait. What was I saying? Right! “Ladies.” Fuck that noise; why isn’t the men’s event called “Gentlemen’s”, then? Wait. No. I was saying something before…”

Ron clutches his chin and overacts a thinking face. The tableau is spoiled somewhat, however, by Ron breaking character to look over at Cormac. Cormac sticks both arms out in front of him as far as he can and gives two enthusiastic thumbs up while nodding in approval. Ron gets pinker.

“The distance!” he finally proceeds.

“Bro, the FUCKING distance! 250 meters shorter than the men’s event? Are you fucking kidding me? You know what that’s about, right? Bro?” Ron stops for a few beats, milking the moment for all it’s worth. “It’s just to make their ski fucker point that the women’s event is shittier. And you know why they have to make their big special point about that? Because it’s NOT. It’s just as much rad, sweaty skiing and inexplicable but ace shooting as the men’s event. 250 meters is shit all, bro. These are pro athletes for fuck’s sake! 250 meters? There’s not even a bullshit argument for women’s bodies not being as strong over 250 meters. You can thank the male chauvinist skiing powers that be for those 250 meters. Like 250 meters would be too much for these women. It’s just some fragile masculinity. That’s what it is. Like, “Hey little lady—” Ron goes for gusto and whips out a terrible mid-western accent, “—we need to be sure you know that you’re inferior to your male colleagues. So we’re shortening the event. Not substantively, you understand. Just marginally. Just a bit.” Ron elongates the “just” comically. “Just so you know your place. Got it, toots?”

The audience, which has been devolving further into laughter the longer Ron keeps his feeble accent going, is now heaving for breath. A few members can be seen wiping away tears of mirth.

“There’s no reason for it, bro! None! Look at speed skating. The geezers in charge of that shit know what the fuck is going on. Same distances between the men’s and women’s events. I mean, I realise that mixed-gender sports would be ideal, but at least they’re not patronising the women skaters. And it’s not even just patronising!”

Ron’s voice rises in volume a few notches, demonstrating renewed vigor for this exciting new point.

“It’s antagonistic. Do you think there’s anyone I can owl about this? The Department of Magical Games and Sports must have some Muggle connections, right? Babe?”

At the conclusion of the rant, Ron doesn’t hesitate or even acknowledge the audience before dashing to the side of the stage where his friend, friendly Slytherins, and lover are sat.

While Lee thanks the audience and pitches an ad for the new Nimbus model in the interval between ranters, Cormac pulls Ron into the kind of one-armed embrace perfected by men celebrating each others’ deadlifting PRs at the gym. “Great job, babe,” Cormac praises. “You made a sweet point about ladies versus women.” Ron accepts the hug and the praise, and doesn’t point out that the point Cormac is praising is his own.

Lee calls Cormac up to take his turn.

Done complimenting himself by proxy, Cormac stands up and starts bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet like an athlete preparing for a sprint. He shakes his head back and forth quickly, letting out a breath that comes out warbled. When he brings his head back to centre, Cormac gives one purposeful nod and strides to the front of the stage that Ron had just occupied, all the while whirling one fist around above his head as though to summon crowd-response by the power of centrifugal force.

There are some amused sniggers from the crowd, but they generally welcome Cormac with a polite round of applause.

“Hi,” Cormac gives a little half wave to the viewers. “I’m Cormac McLaggen and I’m going to do my babe Ron’s pet rant. I’m not doing his accent though; it’s bad form for toffs to mimic regional working class accents,” he advises. “Anyway, enjoy.” He says ‘enjoy’ as though it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Cory, have you seen this morning’s _Prophet_?!” Cormac shouts, moving his arm as though slamming a newspaper down on a surface before him. “That’s it! I’ve had it! I’m cancelling our subscription. I mean it this time! Hand me some parchment from the junk drawer, would you? And a quill? I’m writing to the editor. No conscientious reader could keep silent!”

The infamous rant sounds a little off in Cormac’s voice, but righteous indignation directed towards the _Daily Prophet_ seems to engage the audience, who begin tittering, anticipating the reveal.

“I mean, come on! How could any reasonable person expect the Cannons to pull out of their slump with such negative coverage all the time? It’s… it’s a conspiracy, is what it is!”

The audience laughs more loudly at the invocation of the Chudley Cannons. At the side of the stage, Ron’s nervous blush begins to redden.

“It’s not just the _Prophet_ either, you know. It’s _Which Broomstick_ too, and the smaller mags. They’re conspiring to keep the Cannons down! Their confidence is shot and it’s exactly this kind of press coverage that’s to blame. Just look at this, would you?” Cormac mimes snatching the paper back up and shoving it under the nose of a non-existent person before him. “Look, there,” Cormac points aggressively to an imagined page, “they’ve been listed at the bottom of the league, again! And don’t give me any of that guff about how the _Prophet_ just prints the standings. I don’t want to hear it!”

The laughter in the room gets louder still—everyone has joined in, save Ron.

“If the _Prophet_ ’s so-called sports journalists,” Cormac lifts a hand to either side of his head and over-acts air quotes, “didn’t tear the Cannons down after every game, they wouldn’t be bottom of the league in the first place. They’ve… they’ve lost their confidence, is what. The team name has been raked through the mud!” Cormac waves one arm from his chest until it’s stretched out to his side in an emphatic flourish. “Just take last season for example. It should have been _our year_ ,” Cormac whines. “But then when the team’s new line-up was announced all the _Prophet_ had to say about it was that Clayborne couldn’t Keep her way out of a door marked ‘Exit’ and that Keller had scored on his own team’s goal six times the year before.” Cormac runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

The audience howls.

“I mean,” Cormac says, voice projecting faux humility, “I’m no writer, but I could do a damn sight better than this! Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have a go at writing up the Quidditch reports. Imagine that! Having a fair, impartial, objective report of the Quidditch league. Oh, I’d finally give the Tornados what’s coming to them...” It sounds as though Ron-via-Cormac is truly relishing the thought.

A few good natured, “boos!” sound from the crowd at the ersatz Tornados bashing.

“Of course, all this means for us Cannoneers is that we have to be extra vigilant in supporting the team publicly. Turn up for games, show off our orange and all that, you know? Did you know I read last week that the Cannons have been having trouble _giving away_ tickets for their home games?”

Wheezing can be heard from the crowd. At stage right, Harry sob-laughs into Draco’s shoulder.

“You know, I reckon the thing to do is get more season passes going. I know what I’m getting everyone for Christmas and birthdays until the Cannons are back on form. It’s our moral duty to support our team. You agree, don’t you? Cor?”

Cormac apparently decides to quit while he’s ahead. He sketches a quick bow and strides confidently back towards Ron. He holds a hand up in wordless request for a high-five.

Ron glowers at him.

“Ah, come on, babe, you know I love it that you root for the underdog.” Cormac’s hand is still poised to be met with Ron’s. “It’s hot.”

Ron does not appear moved. He crosses his arms resolutely over his torso.

Draco, who’s got his shoulder back since the rant ceased, takes pity on Cormac, and gets halfway out of his seat and reaches across Harry and Ron to high-five Cormac before sitting back down and admonishing Ron (“You don’t leave a bloke hanging, Weasley”).

Cormac beams at Draco and takes his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaving a cavernous gap between his thighs.

“I knew I’d make a fucking great performer. I think I could do stand-up.”

 

After a quick word plugging Hortenzia Heartburn’s latest novel, _Sirens and Sea Hags_ , Lee beckons Blaise to centre stage.

 

Blaise smirks and rubs his hands once down his wool trousers before standing with confidence. He walks to spot marked by Xs, where he holds his arms out to the side, inviting the crowd to welcome him. They do.

He smiles. “Good afternoon. My name is Blaise Zabini.” He pauses, anticipating applause, and the crowd obliges. He nods his head, eventually holding up a quelling hand. “Thank you. My name is Blaise Zabini, and I’m performing Pansy Parkinson’s ‘I Hate Spring.’”

He takes a breath, closes his eyes. When he opens them, his entire demeanour has transformed into Pansy. Not in a caricaturing way—he doesn’t look at all like a woman. He’s not stuck his hip out to the side nor put a hand on his hip. But the curl of his lip and the raise of his brow, the length of his neck and the disdain in his eyes are no longer his curl, his brow, his neck, his disdain. They’re _Pansy’s._

He heaves a dramatic sigh. “I cannot believe it’s Spring already. I went to Flourish and Blott’s to pick up the latest issue of _Wondrous Warlocks_ and they had an entire table covered with bunnies. _Bunnies._ Can you believe it, darling? Why bunnies? Is the Spring for some reason a time to celebrate any creature that copulates with frequency? And if that’s the case, why aren’t they selling small stuffed likenesses of drunk clubgoers? That’s the real apex of copulation, if that’s the goal. And eggs. Fucking _eggs._ Why? Are these people patronising shops that do not carry eggs in the Winter? In the Autumn? In the Summer? Why are we celebrating eggs? And why are we suggesting that bunnies and eggs are related, because I’m quite sure they’re not. What they’re doing is trying to brainwash us into reproducing, and I am _not_ _having it._ ”

The crowd snickers, mesmerised by Blaise’s performance.

“And, oh! The pastels. The _pastels._ Why am I made to endure such low-saturation colours? They wash out my skin, but even if they didn’t, I would despise them for their absolute banality. What’s that?” Blaise pauses, pretending to listen to an interlocutor. “You say a colour cannot be banal?” Blaise stops, laughs a pitying laugh, and rises a bit taller to his complete height. “Oh, honey. Next time you see a colour lacking strong chromatic content—a mauve, say, or even a,” he stops to affect a shudder, “ _peach_ , you look at it closely and tell me it’s not banal.”

For a moment, he looks done.

“And another thing! All Winter long I’ve been cuddled up inside with my mulled wine or my cocoa, reading my erotica next to the fire—”

The crowd, which until this point has been keeping its snickering to a minimum, begins to chuckle.

“—enjoying the intimacy of the evening, but suddenly my evenings are filled with _light_ and my neighbours’ children run around outside like hooligans making a racket and distracting me from _When Wands Collide_. What if I want to retire early? How can I do that if sun dares to set later? I have half a mind to cast an _Imperio_ at the Earth to adjust its travel around the sun.”

Pansy, from her seat, presses her lips together tightly. You can almost see the objection trying to escape from her lips. Whether she’d like to object to the entire rant or just the bit about the audacity of the sun is difficult to say.

“And the _ominousness_ of the Spring,” Blaise expounds. “With its flashy, allergy-inducing flowers, trying to make itself seem so _harmless._ When in reality it’s heralding the return of despicable, unconscionably hot weather. The Spring is like the little arsehole who runs in to announce, ‘Ah yes, life is going to be miserable soon! Get ready to cast your Cooling Charms and your anti-Humidity Charms. Get ready to cast anti-Chafing Charms every time you wear a skirt because your sweaty, bare legs will rub together unless you outfit yourself in Muggle _Lycra._ ’ How could anyone support a season that heralds the coming of _Lycra?”_

Blaise runs a hand over his head with outlandish despair while the crowd is overcome with laughter.

“Even the Spring holidays are terrible. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day? Invented by the quill and parchment lobby. Easter?” Blaise spits the word. “Do I look like someone who wants to think about resurrection? Or _gammon_? What do I want with a basket of chocolate? I buy my own chocolate and I can tell you my house chocolate is a level up from a Chocolate Frog.”

Blaise pauses, looks down his nose. “I will not even deign to mention Peeps.”

“And if I were to attempt to embrace a certain joie de vivre, if I were to naively try to enjoy the weather, I would inevitably find myself out of doors in a sundress, covered by a cardigan, covered by a coat, covered by socks, covered by boots. Because it’s actually still quite fucking cold in Spring, thank you very much.”

“No,” Blaise raises his hand. “No! Give me a dark evening and a warm wool blanket any day. I’ve had enough of these stinking, sneeze-inducing trees and this insipid pastel loungewear. I’ve had enough of these _sandals_ and fashion magazines telling me to change my makeup to _peach perfection_ and _dusty pastels._ I’ve had it up to here—” Blaise raises his hand above his head, as high as it will go, “with the fucking Easter bunny and all the reproductive propaganda. And the _mud._ ”

He pinches his nose, as if gathering his strength. “Spring can go fuck itself with a muddy, pastel-coloured egg improbably laid by an anthropomorphic lagomorph wearing desaturated lip balm. Come find me in the autumn, darling.”

Blaise stops and looks out at the audience in challenge, exactly the way Pansy does when she finishes a rant. The only thing missing from the scene is a wine glass dangling from his fingers and the (saturated) makeup that Pansy always favours.

The crowd roars with laughter.

Pansy, from her seat, looks as if she’s trying not to laugh. Blaise walks to her and holds out his hand, and when she reaches it to shake he pulls her up into a crushing hug. He informs the audience with a booming smile (that looks, again, like Blaise and not like Pansy), “I love this witch!”

The crowd’s roar crescendos; Pansy shakes her head with a fond smile on her face, squeezing Blaise’s broad torso in a fond embrace.

After an advert for Honeyduke’s new delivery service, Lee welcomes Pansy to take his place front and centre. The crowd simmers down, the energy from Cormac’s and Blaise’s rants fizzling out.

Pansy does not look deterred. As she releases Blaise, she rolls her shoulders and moves her neck back and forth from side to side to loosen herself up. She then weaves the fingers of each hand together, stretches her arms in front of her, inverts her arms and hands, and cracks her knuckles loudly. When her joints are satisfactorily lubricated, she bends down to open the wine-red dragonhide handbag on her seat. She opens it and extracts a black beret. She places it neatly over her sleek bob, turns to Draco, and tells him pointedly, “Follow this, bitch.”

Pansy Conjures a prop microphone and glides over to the centre of the stage. On any given day, Pansy has perfect Parkinson posture, but right now she’s slouched artfully to one side, with one turtleneck-clad arm tucked into the back pocket of her straight-leg black trousers. She’s making no effort to embody Blaise—perhaps she knows that she doesn’t have a prayer of out-imitating him. Instead, she takes a wholly different approach and goes full beatnik, the drama and above-it-all-ed-ness of which, really, isn’t _entirely_ off the Blaise mark.

She completes the pastiche with the first words she speaks: “I call this piece, ‘Society Misunderstands My Sobriety,’ and it is based on the collected works of Blaise Zabini.”

Pansy brings the useless mic to her lips and jumps in without hesitation.

“Mark my words, Pansy: if _One. More. Person_ ,” she speaks the final three words with slow, gritty calculation and emphasises them further still by holding up the index finger of her free hand, “asks me if I don’t drink for religious reasons, I am going to shove a corkscrew up their nose. Or a bottle opener. Whatever is handy. Honestly, one expects such invasive lines of questioning at a pure-blood soirée—our lot could pry for England. But why do so many strangers serving me Pellegrino with lime wedges feel it’s appropriate to ask if I’m Mormon? Or if it’s Lent?” Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes dramatically at the audacity of such plebs. “Do I need to start sporting a badge that reads: ‘I’m Jewish and dry, ask me how?’ Because badges are hopelessly gaudy—all offense intended, Draco.” Pansy takes a moment to turn wearily and look Draco dead in the eye as she says it.

“And another thing,” Pansy speaks the words with convincing incredulity. “Lent is only forty days per year. The CoE catechism is clearly lacking if people are asking me this question from May to February, which I assure you they do. But of course all invasive questions about my faith are preferable to the typical alternative. Indulge me a moment, won’t you, Pans?” Pansy gestures with a delicate gesture of her hand to the audience at large.

Despite its earlier frostiness, Pansy’s performance piece has begun to ensnare the audience. Several members shout “Yes!” and “Go on!” Pansy smirks and proceeds. “Oh, uh, excuse me, sir, what can I get you to drink this evening?” The words are nasal and irritating. Pansy pitches her voice back to her own timbre to respond to the hypothetical server, “I’ll have an Earl Grey with a slice of lemon on the saucer, thank you.” Back to nasal, “No wine sir? Or a cocktail, perhaps, with supper?” Back to normal, “No thank you.” Back to nasal, “We have an excellent signature cocktail this evening—” Back to normal, “Thank you, but I don’t drink,” Pansy says impatiently through clenched teeth. “Oh! Not even wine?” Back to normal, “No,” Pansy replies, as though the foolishness of the serving classes exists only to test the limits of noblesse oblige. “Not even _beer_ , sir?” Back to normal, “Not even beer,” Pansy responds to her alter-alter ego in a defeated tone. Back to nasal, “Wow. What do you drink then?” Back to normal, “Well right now I’m hoping to drink an Earl Grey with a slice of lemon on the saucer.”

The audience has been remarkably quiet so far, and when Pansy pauses to close her eyes with a wince, place the fingers of her free hand to her brow, and draw in a put-upon sigh, the sound of her eventual exhalation reverberates around the room.

“Naturally, I’d happily take all of this to the response in Italy. Morgana’s fertile ova, I fear I’ll be sectioned everytime I visit mother.”

She pauses again to give maximum effect to her next move: tossing her head back and throwing her arms out to her sides as she wails: “Pans! No one understands my Enlightened reasons for sobriety!” She brings herself back to her practiced slouch. “I’m so misunderstood. You know, I almost admire the people brazen enough to ask me if I’m in recovery when they see me sipping Pellegrino at a party,” Pansy’s professes philosophically. “But they seem to lose interest in me when I begin educating them about liver health and its importance for clear, elastic skin. Can you believe that?” Pansy demands, voice disbelieving. “Nobody wants to hear about the wise path to growing older modeled by Morgan Fairchild—it’s an outrage! It’s perverse! So what? One is only a promising mingling partner if they have a titillating story about substance abuse? How predatory is that?” The question is clearly rhetorical, yet Pansy pauses to let the moment really land. Before resuming, she rubs at her collar bone in faux agitation.

“Still, though, the absolute worst are the whiskey enthusiasts,” Pansy spits out the epithet like it’s poison. “Why Pansy?” She’s getting more fired up with every word now. “ _Why_ do they think that patronising lectures about the merits of _oak_ and _smokiness_ and fucking _peat_ are going to change my mind and have me rushing to the nearest drinks trolley to pickle my own insides and risk my flawless skin?” Pansy rants, pleading for understanding, and gesturing to one of her cheeks, fingers moving in a reverent stroking motion just above the skin, as though to avoid tainting it with the unworthy sebum of the vulgar _manus_. “If these people can’t appreciate my sage views on Fairchild, why won’t they at least leave me to sip my mineral water in peace, Pans?” Pansy questions angrily. “I just want to be left alone with my tea!” Abruptly, Pansy throws her mic to the floor and stalks back to her chair, into which she dumps herself as though weighed down by the injustice of living in a world of normalised alcohol consumption.

At first, the audience doesn’t respond, and it seems that their preconceived notions about Pansy have panned her rant. But after ten or fifteen seconds they erupt into applause, several people standing and whistling shrilly. They’re not cackling, but they are profoundly entertained. Pansy turns to look at Draco, who gives her a grudgingly impressed expression and applauds politely. Pansy looks Draco in the eye, then back to the stage as if to say, ‘all yours.’

“Yes, yes, thank you, Pansy!” Lee calls over the fading applause. “And remember, folks, tonight’s programme is supported by Creevey’s Magical Moments: keep your memories magical with one of Creevey’s superior photographers at your next event!”

After Lee announces Draco’s turn, Draco smirks at Pansy and leans over to place a pretentious kiss on Harry’s cheek.

 

Ron, a few seats away, grumbles under his breath, "Rigged competition, the crowd will eat up anything Mister Ferret has to say about Harry, everyone wants to know anything about Harry, totally rigged."

 

Draco, ignoring this, stands and walks to the stage, his arms graceful and his movements monied. When he reaches the centre of the stage, he flashes an evil smirk at Harry, then lets his shoulders droop, turns one foot out to the side. He reaches an uncharacteristically rough hand to this head and rubs it through his hair, attempting to mess it, though his fine locks fall back to nearly perfect despite his pains.

 

"Ugh, Draco—" he nasalises the vowel in a way he's probably never before done when speaking his name, "I _hate_ shopping. Do I have to go? You can pick my clothes for me, you do anyway."

Here Draco pauses, breaking character, and stage whispers to the audience, "It's true!"

Back in character, he continues, "You know what looks best on me, and I hate shopping. I am certainly _capable_ of choosing my own clothes, I just don't _want_ to. Why? Those fucking salespeople! I walk into the store and immediately they're watching me… I know they watch everyone, Draco. But they make me anxious, like someone is judging what I'm looking at and thinking, 'Harry Potter thinks he can pull off a leather jacket?' or 'Why doesn't Harry Potter think he can pull of a leather jacket?' like I just always feel like I'm doing something wrong."

"And everything costs so much! Why should a pair of jeans cost 50 Galleons or more? Can we please just go get something at Primark? I feel guilty spending this much money on clothes. Draco, how much money are we giving to charitable causes? Can we review our finances before we go? Whatever we spend at the shops, can we donate five times to that list of charities I made? What—oh, you already knew I'd say that? You're handing me a receipt of the Gringotts transfers already? Oh."

Here Draco breaks character again to look at Harry and raise his eyebrow in a challenging, love-filled smile. Harry sits in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head, but he can't keep a responding smile off his face.

"But it's not just about the money!" Draco continues. "It's about the signal this sends to the world, that I think my worth is tied up with the quality of my clothes. That I think that appearance is a moral issue—that I, Harry Potter, believe that goodness and worth can be gleaned from the cut of robes or the naturalness of one's fibres!"

"Draco, I can't let people think that I support this rot! It's bad enough I'm with you—right there it looks like I have lost touch with the masses—do you really think that, politically, I should make it even worse by giving in to your blazers and your cravats?!"

The audience titters; Draco is wearing a cravat.

"Fashion is nothing but planned obsolescence, Draco. In our modern society, we could make good, solid clothes that last for decades. A nice wool jumper with a few Reinforcing Charms at the elbows could last for twenty years. It's better for the earth! It's better for the sheep!"

Harry, in his seat, groans. "I never said anything about the sheep!" he hollers, and the crowd, which loves him, laughs goodnaturedly.

"But because of so-called 'trends,'" Draco continues, ignoring Harry's outburst, "people insist that I can't keep wearing my wool jumpers, I can't respect the earth and the inability of people who are less well-off to buy these trendy crop-tops and what not!"

The audience completely loses it at Draco's mouth forming the word "crop-tops."

"It is my political responsibility to make a stand, Draco! I cannot be part of this system that wastes money and resources and in so doing disadvantages hardworking folk who can't afford to buy fancy clothes. Don't you believe people should get by in life based on their effort, not how they look? Don't you believe in _merit_ , Draco?!"

Draco takes a breath, and he's somehow harnessed Harry's flying-into-a-rage look from Year Five.

"I do not believe in shopping! I do not believe in overpriced jeans! I do not believe in _fashion_ , Draco! Fashion is a myth. It only exists because we allow it to exist. I have a lot of social sway, Draco, I can't ignore that—it is my duty to expose this ruse!"

Harry's face is bright red, his hand covering his eyes, lost to a fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he shakes his head and says quietly, "I never said that. I never said that. I never said that."

"I insist!" Draco bellows dramatically, and everyone listening knows Harry has never once spoken this way, which somehow makes it all the funnier. "I do declare! That my freedom is impinged upon! I am the victim of absolute injustice if you do not allow me to wear ratty t-shirts and fraying denim! It is a matter of social justice! Nay—it is an imperative of the earth and of the gods that I should be allowed to wear that baby blue gingham button-down with pit stains!"

The audience is on the floor. One of them, literally. Tears fall down Harry's cheeks as he tries not to laugh.

Draco pauses for a long moment, letting the crowd catch their breath.

"You know what, Draco?" he says eventually, leaning forward and holding up his hand in an eager manner. "I've decided. We should get a sheep. I can shear it with my own wand—"

The crowd descends once again into breathless hysteria.

"—You can help me learn to spin wool, you can even use some of the lanolin for your Potions, and then I will knit all our clothing, Draco. You look good in woolens. There's no bad political representation in that, and more to the point, I won't have to suffer social anxiety on the High Street."

The crowd, still laughing, erupts into applause, completely tickled at being allowed to make fun of their beloved Saviour.

Draco stands tall, returning to his Malfoy posture, and runs a hand over his hair to put it back in place. He bows deeply. The audience's applause swells.

Draco walks back to Harry, pulls him to his feet, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

Harry _hmphs_ into the kiss, though he's visibly amused, and when Draco pulls away Harry turns to the crowd and yells, "We do not have plans to buy a sheep!"

The crowd is overjoyed, sheep jokes about the Saviour and unexpected kisses well surpassing their expectations of the event.

“And that’s why the studio audience have forked over their hard earned Galleons for a seat!” Lee comments cheekily. “For our viewers at home, you’ve missed a hell of a snog! And speaking of snogging, don’t forget to make a reservation for Madam Puddifoot's this Valentine’s Day. Only three weeks away! And now what we’ve all been waiting for—Harry, the stage is yours!” Lee claps Harry round the shoulder as he cedes his place at centre stage.

Harry gives Draco a tiny shove into his seat and walks to the stage, still grinning from Draco's over-the-top performance. Harry looks comfortable—he doesn’t love crowds, but years of being in the spotlight have taught him how to handle it. He doesn't try to embody his character like Draco and Blaise. He doesn't introduce himself like Cormac or nervously explode like Ron.

"Potter," Harry says, heaving a Draconian sigh, "perhaps you, a Gryffindor, can explain to me why anyone would brazenly ignore the data about the safety of autonomous brooms. Because I've looked at the numbers. I've looked at them! They. Are." Harry pauses, leans forward. "Incontrovertible."

Harry, apparently, has no qualms about mimicking posh accents.

"Do you know how many people are injured or killed each year on brooms? Because of distracted flying? Texting in the air? Casting Charms while flying? Crashing into each other on commuter brooms when they veer out of the broom lanes? Running into pedestrians?" Harry pauses. “Forty in the British Isles this year alone, and those numbers are underreported!"

Harry slams one hand into the other to emphasise his point, and the crowd snickers appreciatively.

"Advances in Charms and magitechnology have made autonomous brooms possible—if only we were allowed to _use_ them! If only we were allowed to _perfect_ them! The Ministry's refusal to allow autonomous brooms is delaying the advent of life-saving technology. It will undeniably save lives! And they are _dragging their feet_ , Potter. Why? It is a moral imperative! The data don't lie."

"What?" Harry says, cupping his ear. "Autonomous brooms are unsafe in the air with traditional brooms?" He drops his hand and scoffs. "Hardly. Compared to what? One _must_ consider the proper counterfactual—not a mythical perfectly safe scenario, but the reality, which is the documented danger of traditional brooms. Witches and wizards overlook the known danger of traditional brooms because we have become inured to the countless deaths they cause! Even if an imperfect autonomous broom were to cause an accident, it would still be undeniably safer than the alternative. And the more they're in the air, the faster we'll be able to perfect the Charms technology."

Harry's voice rises in intensity and pitch as he continues to talk.

"Yes, it is true that I sit on the board of Nimbus. But how _dare_ you—" Harry spits the words, "—how _dare_ you suggest that my position clouds my judgment on the issue. It is a matter of DATA!"

Harry absolutely screams the word "data," startling the crowd into guffaws.

"Who are these buffoons who would oppose such safety-driven progress? I'll tell you. Idiots who are more concerned with their so-called right to recreational flying within _city limits_ than they are with _people's lives_. Idiots who say 'How can we play Quidditch with autonomous brooms?' even though autonomous brooms have only ever been conceptualised as commuter and in-town brooms, not for sport!"

Harry's affected posh accent, which had waned over the course of the rant, returns in full force on the word 'sport,' and the crowd loses it. Ron's face turns bright red as he doubles over with laughter, gleeful at Harry poking fun at Draco.

"Or, you have the other camp," Harry says, shaking his head in mock disbelief and chuckling ostentatiously. "The other group. These New Urbanists who insist that we should focus on reducing transportation fatalities by encouraging Apparition and Portkey travel when Floo travel is not possible, and on turning the broom lanes into green space." Harry pinches his nose with some drama. "As if I am against green space, Harry! Can you imagine? I am from _WILTSHIRE!"_

One woman near the front of the room laughs so loudly that she appears to startle those in her vicinity.

"Apparition and Portkeys are not a viable alternative for all magical people!" Harry shouts. "Portkey travel causes motion sickness in _thirty-six percent_ of people."

Draco can be seen in his chair whispering, "Actually, forty-two percent."

"Apparition is dangerous! Some people are unable to pass the licensure, and some people do not have the magical power or skill to Apparate without Splinching. Not to mention," Harry pauses to push his glasses up on his nose, which is ridiculous because Draco doesn't even wear glasses. "Not to mention, fourteen percent of people have a documented history of Apparition Sickness. It is simply unsafe!"

Pansy, in her seat, looks like she is about to die of mirth.

"And yet," Harry continues, ramping up, "these authoritarian New Urbanists insist that we should ignore centuries of Wizarding history. Our entire society has been built around the standard of in-city and commuter travel by broom and Floo! They would like to pretend that we're living in their imaginations rather than in the real world!"

Harry pauses, giving the crowd a moment to appreciate him.

"We have a chance with autonomous brooms to save lives in our actual society, and they want to talk about getting rid of broom lanes and forcing people to travel by Portkey?! _PORTKEY_ , Harry! It is preposterous! Portkeys spin people around like a centrifuge! Why would anyone encourage that?!"

The crowd devolves into hysterics, because there is not a witch or wizard alive who does not despise travel by Portkey.

"I will tell you why. Reflexive anti-capitalism. Prejudice against the broom corporations. I blame the leftists!" Harry tilts his head back to look down his nose slightly, and the crowd roars.

"I do not blame the leftists," Draco says defensively from his seat.

"They try to ignore the data with pretty theories about avoiding capitalism and accusations of ‘propaganda’ about the need to spend money on brooms! If they really cared about class, they'd advocate for subsidization of brooms, but is that what they do? No! They turn this into a class issue while ignoring the fact that it's also an issue of age and disability. How conveniently they forget that the elderly and disabled magical people often cannot Apparate or use Portkeys. Not to mention pregnant witches. I would like people to recognise these New Urbanists for what they are: sexist, ageist, and ablist ninnys who ignore data under the ruse of being progressive, class-conscious urbanists."

The crowd continues its snickering, but Cormac appears thoughtful, caught up in the logic of Harry's performance of Draco's pet rant.

"I am not fooled, Harry!" Harry cries. "I am _not fooled._ "

The crowd, realizing Harry has finished, roars their approval and jumps to their feet with wild applause.

"His performance was good," Blaise whispers to Pansy, "but it wasn't _that_ good. This is unfair favoritism."

"Oh shut up, Blaise," Draco says, smiling at Harry even as his face is flushed with embarrassment.

"As if we haven't heard you complain about Harry Potter favoritism millions of times!" Pansy says. "And now you're okay with it because this time it's benefitting you, as well?"

"It always benefits me, now," Draco says with a smirk, stepping forward to wrap Harry in a hug. Once his arms are around Harry, he says, "You were pandering to the crowd with the leftist thing."

"Sure was," Harry replies. "Much like someone going on and on about sheep."

Draco grins.

Harry and the others fall respectfully silent as Lee takes centre stage again.

“Well now! Our contestants have had their say. Now you get yours!”

Lee explains the details of the voting system once more, instructing the audience and listeners to cast gold stars for Ron and Cormac, silver for Blaise and Pansy, and, to Draco’s chagrin, red for him and Harry (“How come Blaise and Pansy get to represent Slytherin?”).

“And remember, folks,” Lee advises, “they’re playing for three great charities—so be sure to add your vote!”

Lee keeps up some banter as the votes are counted. From the wings, a crew member spells a piece of parchment to fly over to Lee, who snatches it eagerly from the air.

“The moment of truth!” Members of the crowd stop whispering amongst themselves. The suspense in the room is palpable as Lee unfolds the parchment.

Lee beams at the parchment. “We have our first winners of _Whose Gripe Is It Anyway? _! By a landslide, our winners are… Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter!”__

__The crowd goes berserk. Draco and Harry acknowledge the crowd graciously. Blaise rolls his eyes while Pansy looks determinedly unaffected. Cormac applauds his mates’ victory while Ron, over the clapping, stomping, and whooping, tries to shout in Cormac’s ear about ‘unfair advantages’ and ‘flagrant conspiracies’ and ‘match fixing’._ _

__“Don’t sweat it, babe,” Cormac counsels sagely. “I bet we can get some pity Vienettas out of it. Hey! Drazzel!”_ _

__Draco and Harry turn to Cormac before they can stop themselves from acknowledging the joint nickname._ _

__“Tescos run afterward? Winner buys a round of Vienettas!”_ _

__Harry agrees with a nod before he and Draco get up to thank the audience and say a brief word about the charity they’d been playing for._ _

__While Draco and Harry observe the niceties, Pansy sizes Cormac up. “Who knew there was more to you than impressive shoulder width, McLaggen,” she says appreciatively. “I could murder a Vienetta.”_ _

__“You, Parky?” Cormac says, plainly stoked to find out he’s in a social circle with another posh Vienetta enthusiast. “Right on.” He offers her his fist to jab._ _

__“You’re never too posh for a Vienetta,” Pansy intones as she bumps fists with a deliriously happy Cormac._ _

__“ _You’re_ not, perhaps.” Blaise makes a noise of agreement. “But you all can keep your keep cheap supermarket sweets. If we’re going to eat non-premium frozen confections, I may Apparate over to Disneyland Paris for a celebratory Dole Whip.”_ _


End file.
